


The Young and The Old

by Quiet_Shadow



Series: Truce And Consequences [2]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Background Relationships, Crack Relationships, Drinking & Talking, Humor, M/M, May/December Relationship, Multi, Older Man/Younger Man, Rare Pairings, Walk Into A Bar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 03:16:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20650301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quiet_Shadow/pseuds/Quiet_Shadow
Summary: Skywarp is on a quest for vintage Autobots' afts, with mixed results so far. Kup is back from a mission and just wants a drink -- though if the sexy Seeker proposes him, he'll probably won't say 'no'.And Swerve? Swerve mixes the drinks (and should wear protective goggles, but that's another story).(Also featuring many cameos and hinted relationships, Starscream being smug and why it's a bad idea to piss off Special Ops. Or the Constructicons. Or dangerous mechs in general.)





	The Young and The Old

**Author's Note:**

> You wanted it? You got it! XD
> 
> In answer to all the readers who sent comments saying they'd like to see some Skywarp/Kup action after the end of the 'Well-Shagged' chapter of **Monotone Voice and Healing Hands**, here you are :)
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy it as much as I did when writing.

Okay, let’s check up his list.

He had spent near a megacycle in the washracks, cleaning himself up. That may had sounded like a lot, sure, but to get ride of all the little organic pests that kept crashing and dying on his canopy? That was actually a reasonable amount! Starscream spent double that time when he was in a mood! If anything, Skywarp had been quick. And look, he even had left other people some hot water; wasn’t he nice?

Next, he had buffed his plating, touched up his paint and polished and waxed himself until his armor was shining. Observing himself in the ceiling-high mirror decorating a whole wall of their shared quarters, he nodded and smiled to himself, showing up perfectly clean and intact dental plates. Perfect.

(A smarter mech would have wondered about the mirror and why it was there in the first place, but asking had never been on Skywarp’s CPU. To him, it chalked up to Starscream being Starscream and being allowed perks. Not only did he have rank, but the tri-colored Seeker was also more vain than a whole flock of Pewter-Peacocks put together. Where he had gotten the mirror was a bit of mystery, since he hadn’t brought it from the Nemesis and it hadn’t been originally furnished in their room on the new base, but Skywarp didn’t really care).

(He might had found it funnier if he had known the truth of the matter, which involved a lot of sneaking around, hacking skills and bribing the right mechs to either look the other side or help him transport the mirror. It also gave an answer to why Sunstreaker had howled about thievery a couple orns ago and why the golden mech had a) filled a formal complaint against the mysterious mech(s) who had dared make off with his beloved mirror and b) ended up in the brig over starting one of the most impressive brawl Skywarp had ever witness upon thinking he had identified the culprit, and as a Decepticon, he had seen his fair share. Color him impressed – even if he still thought Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were (hot) jerks.)

(Tracks had had to stay in the Medbay for three whole days, putting a wrench in Ratchet’s plans to take a day off to cuddle Soundwave. To say neither of them had been amused was an understatement. Things had kinda snowballed from there and made things tense between many key individuals on the base.)

(Red Alert and Prowl had started drafting up specific punishment for mirror thievery as a result.)

(Starscream, of course, had just watched the chaos unfold with a smirk on his face, which was absolutely not suspicious at all, nope, because he was always smirking anyway, thinking that payback felt wonderful. Even if he couldn’t shot anyone in the face.)

“Perfect,” Skywarp purred aloud, whirling around to have a last glance at his back and wings – perfectly shiny too, he hadn’t messed that up, good. Staring back at his reflection, he put his hands on his hips and tilted them before turning sideway and giving himself a small slap on his aft. “Who could resist that pert aft?”

“Everyone you asked out so far, apparently,” Thundercracker replied sharply from the berth were he was lounging on his belly, chin his hands and an expression of exasperation on his face. “Damnit Skywarp, can’t you just stop and give up?”

Skywarp pouted and tapped his foot on the ground, wings flaring. “No way! I said I wanted some Autobot aft and I’ll get some Autobot aft, mark my words!” he said petulantly. Such little faith in his ability to get laid coming from his own trinemate was starting to be insulting. Surely, TC remembered just how many partners Skywarp had managed to drag to his quarters?

(Oh yes, Thundercracker remembered; he remembered even _too well_, because Skywarp’s quarters were also **his**, and he had walked far too often on Skywarp banging yet another new face against the wall. Or into one of the bunk bed, including Thundercracker’s own. Suffice to say, he had had the mattress replaced several times. Also, he had gotten an opticful of things he had absolutely not wanted to see, ever, and would have liked to remain blissfully unaware of until the day of his deactivation.)

(Seriously, who in his right mind got himself pierced _there_? And _multiple times_ too? He didn’t care about how amazing it supposedly felt, it was just plain wrong, so keep it tucked away or at least pointed the Pit away from me or I will shoot you!)

(It wasn’t even a warning shot; Skywarp had been pretty miffed, because he had hoped to keep this one frag-buddy around for at least a couple cycles more. Tough luck.)

(On further note, the Constructicons had been miffed too, but mostly because they hadn’t wanted to look at that particular _package_ either and reattaching it correctly took hours of surgery they could have done without.)

Of course, Thundercracker’s bad mood and pessimism about Skywarp’s ‘quest’ were nothing new, the black Seeker thought as he looked in the mirror again.

Ever since Skywarp had announced his intention to snag an Autobot, TC had been on his back (no, not like that!), bemoaning about Skywarp’s utter lack of pride (or shame, when it wasn’t both) and lecturing him over and over again on the fact self-respecting flyers should never consent to take a groundpounder to berth, especially not one of the enemy faction, even if they were in a truce that may very well hold and end the damned War once for all.

Meh. Elitist slag, that was it was, Skywarp mentally huffed. Grounders have pretty good spikes and valves too, and they liked flyers. Sure, they were kinda clueless on how to treat one right, but once you had them trained, they were just as enthuastic as any Seeker.

**If** you could make them recognize that wings weren’t for show, that holding them too tight **didn’t** feel good (unless you were into rough stuff, of course), that heel turbines were also fun to play with, that Seekers _weren’t_ near insatiable sluts despite what demeaning propaganda said (okay, Skywarp hopped around a lot, but plenty of mechs did that too, he wasn’t a special case and it wasn’t due to his frametype either; just look at TC and Screamer, or at Jazz! One proper and prissy, one mislabeled as slut even though he was almost as picky as TC, and one whose berth hopping habits were almost as bad as ‘Warp but who, thank to good publicity, was never called out on it. Unfair!),…

But never mind. The point was, TC was very much against Skywarp checking out Autobots’ aft. Starscream had just taken a look at the situation, listened for ten kliks at one of the lecture and threw his hands off the whole matter, loudly declaring he didn’t care who Skywarp decided to jump so long it was consensual and he didn’t make a bigger fool out of himself than he had already showed and anyway, Starscream had more serious issues to think about, thank you.

(Which didn’t meant Starscream was uninterested or that he approved, but when it came to his trine, he had long learned how to pick his battles and recognize those he could or couldn’t win.)

(It made his interactions and double-crossing attempts toward Megatron all the more ironic, which he apparently couldn’t recognize.)

(Either way, he had recognized the look on Skywarp’s face and the cant of his wings as the teleporter’s ‘most determinate look’, and knew there was no stopping it now. Starscream consoled himself knowing that at least this time, ‘Warp wouldn’t be bringing home an Interfacing Transmissible Disease; the Autobots had the good sense to prevent and treat any outbreak with utmost speed, unlike too many Decepticons Starscream knew.)

Starscream’s declarations, of course, had prompted another lecture from Thundercracker -- toward their trine leader this time, which came as a relief for Skywarp. His audios had started to ring. And TC lecturing Screamer over the duties of a good trine leader was kinda hilarious, especially when Starscream started to crack and snap and lecture back. It was always informative, because Starscream had a way to find out the exoskeletons in your cupboards and use them against you in those cases, just to pound on the nail.

Skywarp had certainly never known that for all his disdain at the idea of interfacing with a grounder, Thundercraker hadn’t always sung the same tune. Skywarp didn’t know where in the Pit Starscream had gotten that picture of a tipsy TC shamelessly sprawled in a mech with an obvious truck altmode’s lap, but given Thundercracker’s reaction and kissing him with gusto, it had been a genuine one. Skywarp couldn’t exactly blame TC for it; the trucker had some very nice lips on him, very kissable-looking.

(Like the good Decepticon and general mischief manager he was, Skywarp had promptly snatched it from Starscream’s hand before Thundercracker was able to make a grab for it and run off to make copies – copies he had unceremoniously stashed in every hiding place he could think of and then a few, knowing TC would try and track them down and get rid of the evidence.)

(Skywarp had briefly toyed with the idea of giving fellow mischief makers in the Autobot ranks a few copies too, then had decided that ‘nope’, it wouldn’t do. Fragging grounders was a thing; compromising TC’s honor with outsiders was another entirely.)

(He shouldn’t have needed to worry or bother; copies of that particular picture were already well-known in the circles of Autobot Intelligence. Jazz had files on everyone. Besides, no one could gossip or turn up the dirt like a bunch of Special Ops operatives too clever by half and bored as the Pit during lulls in the constant fighting.)

(There really wasn’t a reason to use up half of what they had discovered on their ‘targets’, but they **knew** and should you tick them off enough, well, you’d better be prepared for your friends to learn you suffered nightly oil-leaks well into your fourth molt, that you still cry whenever you rewatch old Golden Era romance movies despite your image of a hard-to-crack, tough guy, that you were once arrested by Enforcers during a raid on an illegal brothel where the patrons had very unusual tastes in term of partners, namely the four-legged, non-sentient ones, even if YOU didn’t know it at the time, or that YOU were the one who managed to infect half the outpost on Beta-Alpha 37 with MeChamydia because of a faulty firewall.)

(Don’t piss off Special Ops, especially not those under Jazz’s orders. It never pays.

(Incidentally, a copy of that very same picture of TC was carefully laid down in a drawer of Optimus Prime’s nightstand, along with other memos of his younger years, when he had still been going under another name. The identity of the Seeker escaped him altogether, but it was a nice picture – and it had assuredly been a good night.)

(That neither of them recognized the other for whom he was both very ironic and amusing, but multiple reframing and a one-night stand while being both drunk could do that to you, pleasant memories asides.)

(Well, it was amusing and ironic except for Megatron who, after finally managing to tap Prime’s aft and get better access to his quarters, discovered the picture while rummaging about. To say he was NOT impressed was an understatement.)

(No, he wasn’t jealous another Decepticon might have beaten him to Optimus Prime’s berth, even if it was long before the Decepticon existed and even longer before the mech who would become Optimus was Prime.)

(Really, he wasn’t. All those destroyed targets on the range and the dirty looks he threw Thundercracker were all a coincidence.)

Anyway, Thundercracker hadn’t been impressed by being showed the proof of his hypocrisy. It had made him give the rest of his trine the cold shoulder for a while before he went off again on how Seekers should lie with grounders or with Autobots, the two words being almost synonyms in TC’s mouth.

Perhaps Thundercracker would have lied down a bit if, say, Skywarp had showed interest in the Aerialbots, for example, because those were flyers. But Skywarp didn’t want some sweet, naïve Youngling in his berth (though _corrupting_ them and teaching them a few berth tricks could have been fun, and he noted it down on his list of stuff to do eventually when he was bored).

No. Skywarp wanted something vintage. He wanted old afts, the older the better.

Because seriously, anything that could make Soundwave, whom Skywarp had unceremoniously dubbed Creepy Monotonous, First of His Name eons ago, smile and walk bow-legged like he had passed the hottest night of his life when everyone knew Soundwave didn’t have a sex drive had to be something exceptional.

(It should be noted that First of his Name had been a more recent addition to Soundwave’s nickname. Simply, when Skywarp came up with the nickname, he had yet to meet Shockwave, who he soon decided had more than earned the nickname of Creepy Monotonous, Second of His Name. Starscream found it hilarious. Thundercracker just hoped neither of them found out.)

(Soundwave did; but since it was pretty much harmless and not seditious, he let it slide. At least until/when Skywarp mentioned it in public. Then all bets would go off.)

Sounded easy, right?

It totally should have been too!

Normally, Skywarp was considered hot stuff; he was a fine model of a Seeker, with all the right angles and curves, a pair of pretty heel turbines and a great wing display. The fact he was part of the Command Trine, youngish and dashing didn’t hurt either. 

(Also the fact he was not too bright so not out to manipulate people to further his agenda, occasionally paid someone else’s tab and was considered a fun romp in general didn’t hurt. Up to a point, Skywarp could have swung left and right and bring back ten different mechs to his room in a decacycle. Then it had abruptly stopped, before slowly picking up again after a few vorns.)

(Maybe outsiders would have found the fact curious, considering nothing had fundamentally changed about Skywarp in that lapse of time.)

(Then again, everyone on the Decepticon side at the time and a few Autobot double agents and Intelligence members who made a point of knowing everything about their enemies remembered the ‘incident’ with Thundercracker, the gun not set to stun and the pierced bits which had to be surgically reattached, so perhaps it was no wonder his popularity had taken a nosedive for a while.)

(That was one more reason he had been miffed at Thundercraker, too.)

So, as self-professed and semi-publicly acknowledged hot stuff (Starscream was considered in the lead for anything hot with wings, while Thundercracker level-headedness had gathered him many fans, even if they knew they had no chance in the Pit with him), Skywarp should just have had to walk in the nearest bar – or nearest Rec Room, wiggling his aft a little to attract mechs like nanoflies, then pick out his share of older admirers to sample. Right?

Reality, however, was proving itself rather deceiving on that front.

On paper, sure, snatching an old Autobot’s attention and casually propose a frag sounded easy. But there was a bit of a problem with the plan. Several, in fact, much to Skywarp’s growing frustration.

Namely that a), for all their apparent good will in the upholding on the truce and open mind on love and trysts of the inter-faction variety (Optimus Prime had smiled at each one! That counted as an encouragement, right?), nobody seemed really eager to fawn themselves over Skywarp and b) apparently old geezers or at least older mechs of the right age bracket Skywarp was interested in weren’t exactly an easy commodity to come by on the base. Also, the reason c), potentially a mix of a) and b): with so many pretty faces around, the geezers on base didn’t seem that interested in Skywarp to begin with.

As frustrating and a little insulting as it was, Skywarp could maybe, a tiny bit, understand why he wasn’t getting more admirers. As much as it pained it to admit so, the Autobots had no shortage of good-looking mechs on their side. If you could look past the arrogance (Tracks), the murderous glare (Sunstreaker), the Ice Kingness thing (Mirage, when he wasn’t in the company of mechs he explicitly trusted), the stoicism (Prowl), the over-eagerness that must hide secondary motive (Jazz) and so on, that’s it.

Skywarp would never admit to being outclassed, because he certainly was not, but he had to admit there was some serious competition going on over there, one he couldn’t sabotage in his favor (at least not yet; that’d be too obvious. Better wait until Starscream decided it was intolerable too and let HIM come up with plans to take out potential rivals. See, he wasn’t that stupid, was he?).

It certainly didn’t help that, well, all those vorns of fighting as an unit had some lasting effects, such as the building of complex (and not so complex) interpersonal relationships that Skywarp had to tiptoe around. One just didn’t go up and ask for a romp in the berth with a mech who had been in an unacknowledged, semi-official relationship for twenty vorns now – especially not when his lover was sitting on the stool next to him.

For Skywarp’s defense, however, he had no way to know that this High Tide (grumpy but old enough to fit ‘Warp’s criteria) guy was seeing that firetruck who was just as grumpy as him, Heatwave. Everyone thought he was lucky to just end up covered in foam and drenched with a water cannon. Everyone except Skywarp, that’s it, who had to get the foam out of places he’d rather not think about. Damn thing could slide under plating like nothing. Okay, perhaps in other circumstances, it would have been fun to pick it out, especially with another pair of hands to help. Sadly, it hadn’t been one of those cases.

So yeah. Just going up to strangers and request a frag was like navigating a minefield (not that Skywarp knew much about it; usually, he flew right over them. Except with sonic mines, of course. Those things could be set off by air displacement and they had a long range); you never knew when you were going to walk on one and get it to blow up in your face.

It made searching for a partner a lot harder, because it forced him to check up guys he knew for sure weren’t attached. Which, technically, there was plenty around. They just didn’t seem interested in giving Skywarp’s the time of the day and blowing his mind off with load and load of great interfacing.

(Which didn’t mean he hadn’t caught a few optics. If he had asked him, Trailbreaker might have been inclined into accepting the offer and giving him a ride. Seaspray too, when he was on base. But they weren’t old enough to appear on Skywarp’s radar, at least not at the moment.)

That, and not many of them were of an age with Ratchet, which was the stereotypical old, grumpy mech with lot of ‘skills’ Skywarp was forming his idea of ‘ideal geezer to ride until the morning’.

Truthfully, he was starting to wonder if Ratchet wasn’t a technical anomaly of some kind, because seriously, it shouldn’t have been so hard to find another just like him!

And he was trying too!

Skywarp knew he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box (especially not when compared with his trinemates, one of which was an insufferable genius), but even he could work down a list of potential candidates for a fun tryst and work from there. Unfortunately for his interface life, he kept crossing names night after night without any result.

In some cases, it was a damn pity, because he was certain they would have been amazing in berth.

Take Ironhide, for example. The mech was more or less Ratchet’s age (at least as far as Skywarp could judge; old mechs often kept a tight lid on their creation date and Skywarp readily admitted he wasn’t that good at evaluating people’s age, which may have lead him in some legal trouble when he had unknowingly offered a recently activated mechling a cube of high grade before the War broke out), and he had seemed like a good pick.

Except, well, not. Outside of the fact that apparently, Ironhide **really** didn’t like Seekers for some reason (okay, okay, perhaps getting shot at one time too many had left him permanently suspicious of anyone with wings which wasn’t a young, eager to please Youngling with red markings on their wings, but that was hardly Skywarp’s fault, wasn’t it? He hadn’t… well, yes, he had shot at him, but he had missed! Right? Well, mostly missed), it turned the old mech was one of those fetishist guys who only dated one specific frametype.

In Ironhide’s case, the specific frametype he was interest in was Femmes. Not only that, but he was also furiously monogamous when it came to relationship and didn’t take the idea of flings kindly. He had stared down at Skywarp with an impassible expression, ignoring the sweet-talk and the not-so-subtle rubbing against his side until Skywarp had eventually trailed off, finally getting the vibe that the old rusty red mech _wasn’t_ interested in him.

Then he had gotten the vibe that someone was likely dancing on his (non-existent) tomb.

It turned out that Ironhide’s girlfriend, a gun-totting blue lady with a temper, had arrived on base with the last contingent from Cybertron, and she had seen him flirting with HER mech. She had patiently waited behind Skywarp’s back with a cocked gun for him to notice her – and if he hadn’t teleported in the nick of time, the crazy bitch would have shot him! Skywarp had never officially met Chromia before but now, he was hardly ever going to forget her face. Or Ironhide’s hearty laugh as ‘Warp disappeared in a flash.

Geez, for such a bunch of peace-loving fools, Autobots were a violently possessive lot, weren’t they? Between Heatwave and Chromia, that was two times Autobots threatened him with bodily harm, and just for a flirt!

Damn. They weren’t that different from Decepticons in the end, were they?

(No, they weren’t, really. Under a layer of civility, you’d find in the Autobot ranks the exact same things you’d find on any Decepticon base: a bookie or two, a gambling den you kept away from the optics of the big bosses less they’d be forced to close it but everyone knew they also placed bets on the side, especially if your name is Jazz, plenty of racy love stories, breakups and hot making out, rivalries you never suspected, a drunk or two and internal fights like clockworks.)

(Okay, the Autobots didn’t fight nearly as much as Decepticons. Not with their fists anyway. But there were plenty of stuff you could do to profoundly annoy and vex another mech without laying a finger on them. Red Alert would know; his ‘random’ paranoia fits weren’t exactly as random as they looked, no matter what other mechs thought and they did wonder for his growing frustration with his fellow Autobots.)

So, Ironhide had been a failure. High Tide hadn’t been much better. Skywarp had tried his luck with a fellow named Nitpick, yet another grouchy mech (seriously, did all old mechs grew the same type of temper?) he had never met before. After observing him for a couple of nights and making sure he was well and truly unattached to avoid getting shot at by an angry lover, Skywarp had rolled his hips and decided to go forward with his seduction plan, only to slowly back down when the old mech started rambling about filling out formularies in triplicate.

Skywarp might have been interested in old mechs at the moment, but he had his limits, and a member of the Bureaucratic Division was well past what he was able to handle. All those records and paperwork… Brr. That was Evil, with a capital ‘E’.

Then he had tried to hit on a mech named Landmine. It had worked up good… at least until the old mech had realized that Skywarp really wanted a frag. Then he had smiled in a bittersweet way, patted Skywarp on the shoulder and let him know gently but firmly that he couldn’t give him what he wanted, much to his chagrin since Skywarp was good-looking and a very tempting treat.

Skywarp had stared at him cluelessly until Landmine regretfully elaborated after making sure no one else was listening in. Boy, hadn’t it been an optic opener; Skywarp hadn’t known things like that could happen! As it turned out, Landmine’s specific frametype experienced troubles in the intimate area as they grew older (“Slagging flaw in design that makes me want to stuff my whole pedes into the designers’ collective afts, mark my words, Youngling.”). Much to the old mech’s frustration, he couldn’t tuck his spike out, and his valve had a hard time producing lubricant.

“They corrected the flaw in the following generations, but old timers like could never get rid of it entirely. I can still look at a fine piece of aft as much as I want, but bedding it is a whole other can of oil,” the old mech had said regretfully as he ordered another drink for Skywarp, who was sitting shell-shocked on the stool next to him, wondering if he too would suffer the same indignity when he’d be as old as dirt.

If so, Primus was an even bigger fragger than he had ever suspected.

The Landmine experience hadn’t been a total waste, however. On the plus side, Skywarp had won a drinking buddy who had some awesome stories to tell (he had never known grounders engineers had worked on the construction of the first neighborhood of Vos, though in retrospective it made sense and explained a good deal about the weird architecture of the oldest quarters) if you paid him a drink or two. On the down side, well, Skywarp had still not managed to get himself laid until his mind blew off from the pleasure.

But it did make Skywarp realize that perhaps he needed to narrow his research criteria and see for mechs who were, well, perhaps a tad younger than Landmine. Like, a few (hundred) thousands vorns younger.

Which added many names on Skywarp’s list of potential lovers because, well, the Autobots were actually ripe with mechs who were past their prime but not yet relics and technically, it was a good thing. More choices meant he had better chances to find THE mech, right? So perhaps he had had to grease Bumblebee’s paw in order to get activation/creation dates off the record in order to target mechs in the right age braket (because behind his innocent looks, the Minibot was just as corruptible as any ‘bot, and the only thing it had coasted Skywarp was a couple of pictures from Starscream in the washracks. Screamer had fans, it seemed), but it was worth it.

Or was supposed to anyway.

Because despite having the right information and narrowing his list yet again, all the interesting mechs Skywarp felt hopeful about kept being snatched away from him!

Look at Prowl, for example. Mech was older than Skywarp had first thought, at least according to his creation date (if it was the official one, that’s it, but it didn’t cross Skywarp’s mind that Bumblebee could have lied to him) so that made him interesting. Sure, he had as much personality as a stick in the mud (and may have had an actual stick stuck somewhere), but the rumors mill had… _very interesting things _ to say about him and his ex-lovers.

(That the rumors were propagated by Jazz, who was NOT one of said lovers, should have been warning enough someone was messing with everyone else here, but eh. Mechs had to amuse themselves as they could and seeing idiots try to tap Prowl’s aft was very, very amusing to watch.)

Color Skywarp curious.

That said, he had quickly realized that going after Prowl was a very, VERY bad idea, the kind of which could become lethal if he mis stepped. Not because of Prowl himself, oh no (though if looks could kill, there’d be quite a few corpses around; Prowl was **not** amused at his recent influx of suitors-to-be. Jazz had the good sense of making himself scarce).

More like because Prowl had gained six unlikely suitors. Or one, it depended on their mood. Anyway, making a move on a mech who had the combined interest of a Combiner was definitely a Bad Idea, capitals intended, especially when that Combiner was Devastator.

(Sure, Bruticus was more violent and Menasor was borderline psychotic and destructive than Devastator. However, Devastator was more intelligent and far more likely to hold a grudge. Not only that, but the Constructions had been the de facto medics for a large part of the Decepticon army for the longest time, at least until they managed to retrieve the scattered medics of their faction. It never paid off to piss off the ‘medics’, especially when they hadn’t swore to do no harm. Sure, now it was Ratchet who held their collective afts in his hands, but the Constructicons still inspired fear and respect.)

(Prowl might have had a very nice aft and gorgeous doorwings which were almost as nice to look at as a proper pair of wings, but Skywarp had come to the conclusion even an eventual good frag wasn’t worth dying for. Trying to seduce Prowl might have been fun to do, but getting killed by friendly fire from one or several irate Constructicons would be a messed up way to go.)

(And getting ‘accidentally-on-purpose’ swatted out of the sky by one of Devastator massive fists didn’t feel appealing the slightest. With his luck, Skywarp would end up hitting a mountain or a wall on the way down.)

So yeah, going after Prowl was a No-No, and Skywarp hadn’t needed TC and Screamer’s warning to realize it.

Next on Skywarp’s list had been Brawn, but well… Minibot. That was self-explicatory. Not only were they on the small side, but they didn’t like Seekers, period – and Seekers weren’t fond of them either, so there. He had scratched out Brawn’s name without a second thought. Same with Cliffjumper, and the scratching had been a lot faster. Brawn at least could be polite with Decepticons; Cliffjumper was likely to throw his drink to the face of the first one who would speak to him.

Skyfire… Now, that had been tempting, because, eh, flyer! But then Skywarp had remembered that for all Skyfire’s creation date was anterior to Starscream by a very large margin, he had also spent thousands of vorns in stasis, so his age and, ah, ‘experience’ weren’t exactly in adequation. Plus, if he went after Skyfire, Starscream would probably flip. Even if he pretended nothing had ever happened between them outside of a purely professional relationship, Starscream was suspiciously quick in losing it when someone mentioned Skyfire in a bad way – or tried to make a move on him.

No banging Prowl, no banging Skyfire,…

It was depressing how fast Skywarp was working down his list once everything was said and done.

But still, he decided, squaring his shoulders, he wasn’t going to admit defeat. With a little more work, he was certain he could get his piece of Autobot’s vintage aft!

For a moment, he was tempted to go after Optimus Prime; guy had to be old behind that mask of his, yeah? After all, they wouldn’t have given the Matrix to some young punk without any experience, right? So logically, Prime had to be old. Old-ish. Whatever. And the Matrix! If it granted the bearer the wisdom and memories of the former Prime, then surely it also transmitted interfacing tips? Perhaps Primes were secretly interfacing Gods?

The thought made Skywarp giggle.

(Incidentally, he wasn’t completely wrong. However, Optimus was too ashamed and flustered by those knowledges to actually use them, preferring to keep _that_ part of the former Primes’ ‘wisdom’ locked under key.)

(Rodimus Prime, however, would find it hilarious. And very useful. For negotiations, you know.)

Plus, it could be fun to brag about banging a Prime once; Skywarp wasn’t sure how many Cybertronians alive could do it, but he’d bet it was barely in the double digits. He would have done it too, just for the fun of it, except that Megatron threw dark looks in his direction whenever Skywarp glanced for more than five seconds in Optimus Prime's way (even during briefing time, during which it was kinda hard NOT to!), silently promising a thousand painful deaths if he even tried to poach on _his_ territory. Justifiably and showing that for all his bouts of questionable sanity, Skywarp still had a survival instinct, the black and purple Seeker has backed down, wondering all the while how Megatron had known.

(In retrospect, it really wasn't that hard to understand. Skywarp had a _look_ on his face whenever he decided someone was interesting enough to pursue. Or pester. Or both. Given it was an open secret that Skywarp was hunting for a berth partner, it didn't take majoring in rocket science to understand why he was trying to get cozy with Prime.)

Funny how everyone who managed to catch themselves an Autobot tended to become possessive of them. They really must have been great laid, and it made Skywarp even more hopeful and giddy (and desperate) at the thought of finally getting one of his own.

Tonight, Skywarp decided as he left their shared quarters and the ever skeptical Thundercracker behind.

Tonight, he was going to find his vintage aft; believe it!

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

“Oy, barman; a double Molten Star, shaken, not stirred – and you can add a supplement of iron sprinkles in while you’re at it,” Kup bellowed as he sauntered on the nearest stool. The bar was only half-full at this hour, which sat perfectly well with him. While he didn’t mind reconnecting with old friends, for now he just wanted some relative quiet in order to unwind.

“Oh, Kup,” the little ‘bot manning the bar tonight smiled – Minibot, a gap between his dental plates, Kup remembered him from before. Swing… no, Swerve, his memory banks supplied. Very chatty, friendly sort, knew his drinks and the fine art of mixing, so Kup was assured there’d be no trouble with his order. Not like with Blurr; ask him for a cocktail and you’d be lucky if the mixing wasn’t overdone. Personally, Kup, blamed it on Blurr’s speed; racers never slowed down, even for the little things. “Finally back from mission? Gossip said you weren’t due for another ten solar cycles,” Swerve smiled, pushing a tiny basket full of appetizers before him before bending behind the bar to grab the Molten Star’s ingredients.

(Any other barmech would have grabbed a pair of protective glow and/or insisted on putting a protective visor in front of their optics before manipulating the bottles. Swerve was either too brave or too stupid to care. Besides, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t suffered chemical burns before, he could handle it if it happened again.)

(Hopefully.)

Kup waved. “Oh, you know how it goes. Just apply enough explosive forces at the right point and you can end up missions earlier than even Prowl projected. Though he probably won’t be happy about the collateral damages,” he amended with a wink.

(It should be noted that Prowl had a profound dislike of explosions in general, and even more so when Wreckers and ex-Wreckers were involved in them. Wreckers had no sense of measure and were of the advice there was no kill like overkill. While very nice on paper, in reality, being the one who had to deal with the fallout and issue the reports on massive scales of destruction tended to give Prowl twitches.)

“Ooooh, did you blow much stuff?” Swerve asked eagerly, carefully adding a measure of sulfur in the shaker, which Kup nodded at in satisfaction; not too much, and not too little. Just the right amount.

“What do you think?” Kup grinned, putting his elbows on the counter and taking his chin in his hands.

“Weeell, since the gossip mill said you and your team took off with some of Wheeljack’s latest toys, the ones who do very big ‘booms’, and half a ton of standard explosives, I’d say you either blew whatever your target was sky-high or that you made a very big crater somewhere. Possibly both,” Swerve commented, reaching for yellow Polyhexian mid-grade energon.

(Nothing blew up like Wheeljack-made explosives. Of course, they could also blow on you, so you better be careful handling them. But when you did, well, the enemy tended to remember it. Ask Blast Off; he still had protoform-deep scars in unmentionable places.) 

“Both are right,” Kup nodded, grinning in satisfaction. “The Quints are going to be picking up the pieces for a long, long while.” He didn’t say more and Swerve didn’t ask for more either, already knowing Kup wouldn’t share the details until the mission was officially declassified. Of course, the rumor mill would pick up everything there was to know in short order and Swerve would learn everything he wished and more, so there was no point in bothering his client.

“So, nothing new while I was away?” Kup asked, picking up an appetizer – some kind of thin cobalt-laced treat cut like a triangle. “Hum, not bad,” he said after crushing it between his dental plates while Swerve confirmed that nope, nothing new was on the horizon. Even the shockwave from Ratchet shacking up with Soundwave of all mechs had started to die down, which was just as well. Kup considered Ratchet to be a friend and even if his taste in lovers was surprising, it really wasn’t any business but their own. He just hoped Soundwave treated Ratchet right (though knowing Ratchet, the reverse was most likely true as well). “If you make it a regular addition for the bar, you’ll pick up a lot of fans,” he gestured toward the bowl.

Swerve positively beamed. “Thank you! Mirage didn’t believe me when I told him people would like it. You know how he is,” he leaned forward conspiringly even as he closed down the shaker after adding a spoonful of a deep-blue liquor nicknamed the Headache Bringer, “all stuffy and haughty and proper, believe entertainment should always cultural, that lob-ball is for brutes and the likes. It was hard enough to get him to make him add Flat Tire and Budweiski oil cans to the stock, even when both Blurr and I kept telling him that when people wanted to overcharge, they didn’t do it on fancy cocktails and most ‘bots here, especially the ‘Cons, have no idea of what half the menu entries are. We told him again and again,” he sighed as he started shaking the shaker in precise rhythm. “But it never seems to stick, even when he agrees grudgingly to concessions.”

Kup nodded briefly and made approbation noises before reaching for the bowl of appetizers, grabbing a couple to nibble on. “Bah, he’ll come around. Mirage is a little prideful, but he’s not a bad mech.”

Swerve sighed as he versed the content of the shaker in a glass, making sure not to spill a single drop out. “Oh, I know, I know. Still, I wish the bar was truly mine. With Blurr and Mirage, we all have too much of a divergent opinion on how to run things to make it work for long. Guess all of us like the idea of being barmechs.” As he spoke, he added a generous amount of iron sprinkle in the glass, the tiny metal bits sinking at the bottom, the smaller ones starting to melt in the mixed fluids before pushing the drink toward Kup. “And one Molten Star, one. Enjoy.”

“Hmm, maybe that means we’ll get a good influx of bars on Cybertron once that war is finally over,” Kup smiled at he reached for his drink after giving his thanks. He emptied a third of the glass in one gulp, savoring the taste and the burning sensation spreading through his throat tubing. Molten Star had a kick to it he rarely found in other cocktails. Ratchet would probably not be impressed with him if he learned he had taken one so soon after a major surgery; Molten Star could be, uh, kinda ‘hard’ on the fuel tank. As in, someone with a weak tank or a damaged one could get it burnt. Not that Kup ever had the problem himself, but he knew ‘bots who did. It was definitely on the list of drinks medics flat out forbidden patients to take.

But Kup wasn’t worried. He knew his limits, and he knew Ratchet – and even more so, Ratchet knew _him_. The medic could grumbled and threaten as much as he wanted, he also trusted Kup to make the right choices for himself.

That’d probably be his only cocktail of the evening, Kup thought with regret as he savored a smaller sip. For the rest, he’d stick to mid-grade and plain oil.

Swerve moved behind the bar, reaching for other glasses. “If we do, I hope I won’t get too much concurrence,” he joked, lining up shot glasses on a shelf behind him and double checking a bottle of what appeared to be vintage Tetrahex engex brew. “Drink is to your taste?”

“Perfect,” Kup nodded with a small grin. “The bar still allows cy-gars in, I hope?” he asked as he took a box out of subspace. If he had to go slow on the drinks, he wasn’t about to renounce to the simple pleasure of lighting one or two to go along with a good mix.

For all answer, Swerve tapped to a sign hanging from a shelf on which the different temporary barmech had noted the rules on which they had agreed. Kup peered at it, checking if it had been amended yet since his last passage.

‘No Guns’ and ‘No Fighting’ were a given and was found in all bar, even the exclusively Decepticon-manned ones. ‘No High-Grade For Injured’ should have been obvious and went without saying, but apparently there were always stubborn mechs who didn’t get the memo. Ratchet had probably sent the bar a list of mechs still on the recovery list to let them know WHO wasn’t allowed anything higher than low grade.

‘No Karaoke Unless It’s Karaoke Night’ threw him out of a loop but Kup shrugged it off, remembering that too many mechs he knew sung off-key when drunk. He suspected the rule had been issued on Mirage’s insistence; mech liked a good tune but swore his audio receptors bled when faced with bad singing. Kup also suspected that the ‘No Flirting With The Barmech’ rule had been issued by Blurr; he had seen a couple guys trying to hit on him to get a discout (or a easy frag). Must have gotten annoying after a while.

‘No Briefcase’ was a new one and harder to understand until Kup remembered seeing Brainstorm walking around with one, which fell under the ‘highly suspicious’ category.

There were a couple more entries, but nothing on cy-gars. “Good,” he murmured, lighting one and starting to puff on it with contentment.

“Enjoying it while you can,” Swerve advised. “Mirage was talking about it recently, saying it was downgrade poison and he Wasn’t Approving. But enough mechs love to light cy-gars or a Tobba-Ko Sticks to relax that even he has balked at straight up banning them. At least for now,” he shook his head.

Kup snorted. “Yeah, I guess he’d say that.” Then again, there was probably more to Mirage’s frown at cy-gars than prissiness.

It was a well-hidden secret that Kup had known Mirage when he had still been a wee thing, toddling behind his Creator’s Uncle. Back in the days when Cybertron had conflicts with alien races which _weren’t_ Quintessons, Nobles weren’t reluctant in joining the fighting. They seldom sent in their precious oldest Creations and Heirs, but the younger ones often ended in the Military Academy. Most of them ended up as Officers, even when they showed little aptitude to the job (though higher ups were smart enough to keep the lazy or inadequate ones out of the way, tucked away in small, unimportant outposts or in Administration or Logistics).

Patina, Kup’s old friend, hadn’t been one of them. A rarity among his caste, he had opted to go fight on the frontlines and he had been **good** at what he did. Saved Kup’s aft a couple of times too, the old mech remembered fondly. He had retired after the end of the conflict in the Axapetra Nebulous, but he and Kup had still met every couple of vorns to reminisce and drink up to fallen comrades. Once or twice, he had brought Mirage along because he had been keeping an optic on him for the day. Kup still had image captures of little Mirage asleep in his Great-Uncle’s lap.

Good mech, Patina. But even good mechs had their darker sides. Kup hadn’t learned until much later that a near miss or two had been too much for his friend to handle and that Patina had turned to substances abuse to help himself cope. The cy-gar one had just been the most visible and socially _acceptable_ of the lot and probably the only one relatives had allowed themselves to talk about whenever Mirage or the other Sparklings of the House had been around.

‘Cy-gars’ was officially what had killed Patina; the rest was swept under the rug. If Mirage hadn’t been told the rest (and there was little reason to, given how young he had been back then and how negatively it would have impacted the House’s image if someone had spilt the secret), then of course he’d consider cy-gars with a bad optic.

They weren’t really that toxic, Kup thought as he exhaled a ring of smoke. The formula had been modified over time to lessen the toxicity and although they still weren’t the healthiest thing to use and could be hard on filters if you didn’t take care of your frame correctly, they really weren’t that bad.

But go and tell that to mechs who hated them on principle…

Swerve shook his head. “Anyway, I… Oh,” he cut himself off, optics widening as he watched something behind Kup’s back. “Oh no. He’s at it again?”

Kup turned his head and raised an optic ridge as a rather good-looking black Seeker with purple and white accents entered the bar, swinging his hips left and right as he walked. Really nice hips, Kup noted in interest, broad just like the older mech loved them. The Seeker’s general shape was a bit boxy, but it was common with this particular model – a G-9.17-84-1, if Kup’s memories served him right. He had known a lot of Seekers over the years and sometimes the difference between frame types were minimal, but that particular form of wings, the squareness of the wings and forearms and those head vents were definitely part of the G-9.17-84-1 lineup. It was solid and well-armored, even before war-induced modifications to reinforce the plating kicked in, thus why many fliers had opted to upgrade to it once the War between Autobots and Decepticons had started blowing out of proportions and more and more ‘civilian’ frames joined up Megatron’s ranks. It would be interesting to know if that specific Seeker had been born with the frametype or if he had changed frame to comply with war demands; it made a lot of difference in the neural systems… and how sensitive it made you to touch.

Because there was only one thing a Seeker moving like that could be after… And if it was what Kup was thinking about, then he wouldn’t mind providing it. Not for such a pretty face.  
Then again…

“Who is that?” he asked casually. Oh, he knew that Seeker by sight; it was pretty much impossible to go through the whole War without being able to identify the Elite Trine, aka the two trinemates of the infamous Starscream. He also knew it was the teleporter one, not the one who made sonic booms. But as to his name… Well, Kup’s CPU drew a blank.

For his excuse, it should be known that while in peace time, Seekers tended to form a trine and stick to it (if they even joined a trine; many preferred to stay solitary beings, while other preferred to join larger formation of four or five individuals), the rules in time of war were a lot more chaotic. As such, Starscream had had more than two wingmates through the war, a few of which had filled as temps when one of his normal trinemate was injured or sick and the other who had died early on. There had also been a lot of jockeying around among the different trines at the top, members being switched left and right as they gained favor or lost it, depending on how well they flew or how much they had distinguished themselves on the battlefield.

After a certain point, Kup hadn’t bothered to learn their names; why should it, when the rotation changed so much? Then the whole bunch had disappeared with Megatron in pursuit of Optimus and the Ark crew and Kup had had his hands full with Ultra Magnus’ unit and raising the younger ‘bots they kept picking up along the way, and the whole Seeker mess had slipped his mind.

At least until now, and as Kup watched the black and purple Seeker pause and smile at two mechs at a table, who just vaguely waved his way before resuming the card game they had started. The Seeker’s smile visibly waned for a brief moment before he squared his shoulders and moved onto the next table – a table hosting a mech who may have been only half of Kup’s age from the looks of it. Not only that, but the two card players had been on the mature side too. Interesting. Very interesting, he silently mused, stroking his chin as he glanced at Swerve, waiting for his answer.

The Minibot grimaced. “What, you don’t know Skywarp?”

“Well, now I can put a face on the name,” Kup shrugged as he divided his attention between the barmech and the Seeker prowling the bar, still swinging his hips. “Is there a problem with him? Got a tab he hasn’t paid in forever?” he questioned.

“Hum? Oh, no, no, nothing of the sort, he pays in cash and on time,” Swerve shook his head. “But he’s… The thing is, you see, he…” he trailed off, sighing. “Oh, to the Pit with it. Whenever he comes in, he spent the evening hitting on other patrons, and it’s starting to get on my CPU.”

Kup blinked. “Wow. Every time?” he said, looking at Skywarp again. “Not the style to keep a regular lover, then?” Not that there was anything bad with it; some mechs just weren’t done to settle down with a single lover. Kup had known his fair share – and honestly, he was leaning toward it himself.

“He’d have to get a lover to begin with,” Swerve snorted. “He tries to flirt, but everyone turned him down so far.”

Now Kup raised an optic ridge. “Seriously? A sexy Seeker like him? You would think mechs would line up to tap that aft,” he commented, grabbing his drink and taking a sip as he watched Skywarp bent forward to speak with another Seeker, displaying a very nice aft.

“And they would if Skywarp would allow it, too. Eck, I’d been in line too,” Swerve sighed heavily, grabbing a cloth and rubbing an empty glass with it. “Did you see those wings? I’d so love to pet them…”

“Ditto,” Kup nodded. Pet them, and more. “So, why do they turn him down?”

“Ah, that,” Swerve giggled nervously. “Well, you see, since a while, Skywarp has only started to proposition a… certain type of mech.” At Kup’s questioning hum, he added. “Like… mechs like Landmine. And Ironhide,” he added as an afterthought.

Kup actually whistled. “Sweet Primus; was Chromia around?” Swerve nodded, making Kup chortle. “I don’t know if it was stupid or incredibly brave. Chromia isn’t known for sharing – unless you’re Elita, that’s it,” he added with a knowing smirk.

“I’ll go with stupid, because she was right behind him,” Swerve grinned, putting the now shining glass back on the counter. “Anyway, do you see the pattern?”

Kup leaned forward and put his elbows back on the counter. Of course he was seeing the pattern; Landmine, Ironhide, the two mechs Skywarp had been swinging his hips in front of… It was obvious the Seeker was searching for a ‘mature’ partner.

The problem with ‘mature’ mechs, however, was that chances were high they either had someone serious already or they weren’t interested in interfacing anymore, which apparently Skywarp had never accounted for when searching for a berth partner.

(Anyone who was a little savvy knew proposing Landmine was bound to fail. It was a pity too, because Kup had tangled with him more than once in his younger years, and Landmine had been a most attentive partner – very good when it came to bondage, too. Kup had often proposed to help pay for an interface array change, since it was about the only thing that’d allow Landmine to, ah, ‘rise it up’ again, but the other mech had repeatedly declined.)

(Well, if he was happy like that…)

Kup almost pitied Skywarp. Almost.

“I wish I was a bit older,” Swerve commented, then gave Kup a glance. “You, however, you have all your chances.”

“You think so?” Kup smirked, chomping on his cy-gar. He hadn’t needed Swerve pointing it out to him and his mind was already supplying him with many enticing images of Skywarp lying in his berth; before they almost all went over to Megatron’s side, Kup had fragged with his fair share of Seekers and each experience had been… incredible. He had also learned many tricks thank to them. Many of them for which he had _just_ the right toys lying in a chest in his assigned quarters.

Smiling to himself, he threw another glance toward the Seeker. “Well, if he asked me, I certainly wouldn’t say ‘no’.”

Which, of course, was exactly the moment Skywarp turned his attention toward the bar and the two of them crossed optics.

Smirking, Kup lifted his glass in a salute. Immediately, he could see the light of interest shine in the black and purple Seeker’s optics.

_Hook, line… and with any luck, sinker!_

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Oh Primus, oh Primus, oh Primus, oh Primus!

Old Autobot mech spotted!

Old, smiling Autobot mech spotted! Chances of him being single… well, they were about fifty-fifty, Skywarp’s CPU supplied (un)helpfully. Better not get his hopes up too fast, but damn if it wasn’t a more positive answer to his smile and attempts at flirting than he had experienced for the last two orns.

Okay, his CPU supplied again, let’s take a closer look at his new (victim) target.

Old and Autobot were too basic a description, even if it filled already 95% of Skywarp’s current standards to pick up a lover.

(The five remaining percents were tied up to aesthetic and personality. Just because he wanted to bed vintage afts didn’t meant Skywarp was ready to pick up an ugly guy to burrow into – he had standards, even if Thundercracker and Starscream liked to jape that said standards were incredibly low. Plus, Skywarp wasn’t fond of the idea of getting in berth with someone who was a racist, Functionist or classist slagger, thank you very much.)

(Gags or turning off your audios could only do so much to help you deal with their nonsense and half the time, they weren’t even that good in the berth. Maybe the hate sprouting was to overcompensate on something? Eh eh, he was soooo going to make jokes about it when he’d have more free time to come up with them!)

Light blue optics, check; hard to find an Autobot who _didn’t_ have blue optics. The old guy’s helmet had a funny shape, but he liked his color, some sort of grey-blue. Skywarp liked blue (at least in paintjob; as a Decepticon, he was pretty much certain there was a contractual clause about hating mechs with blue optics. Which may have gone down the drain with that whole alliance thing, who knew?); blue always reminded him of TC, and TC was safe. Ergo, blue was safe. The cy-gar… Well, it was an intriguing touch, Skywarp had to admit. While he never lighted one himself (the one time he had tried just to know what it was like, he had clogged his vents so bad he had coughed smoke for a decacycle), seeing a mech chain-smoking them like one of those actors in the action or spy movies from the Golden Age was **hot**.

His CPU briefly supplied him with the image of a very stated himself next to the smoking old-guy, smirking and asking : “So, happy?”)

Skywarp shuddered and clamped down hard on his rising arousal. Bad thought, bad thought. Wait until he agrees to frag with you before getting hot, he reminded himself.

But that cy-gar was optic-catching, there was no denying that. At least the Autobot looked well-maintained, he noted distractedly, so his filters were probably in good state too. Hopefully he wouldn’t turn into another Landmine.

Yeah. Physically, the old mech was promising. Now, he needed to confirm it with a first contact!

Onward, noble Seeker!

Smiling brightly, Skywarp sauntered toward the bar, smoothly sitting on the stool next to the old mech in one move, bending his leg to let his ankle rest over his other knee. “Hey, Swerve, a Blue Rocket, please!” he chirped, remembering to smile at the Minibot barmech. Too bad it wasn’t Blurr’s turn; no one made a Rocket like him. Eck, Blurr had **invented** the cocktail himself, according to the legend, and Skywarp totally believed it.

(In this case, he was completely right. Blurr’s stint as a barmech might have been a recent development, but the Racer’s love for mixing was an old and deeply ingrained one, from the days he was trying to come up with a way to boost up his performance on the racing tracks.)

(That said, Blurr hadn’t been sober when he had come up with the Blue Rocket recipe, and it felt. Many a mech with a working processor tended to call it ‘completely unpalatable, are you crazy, if you drink a whole glass you’re going to pass out or go up in flames, perhaps both!’, which had been shortened to ‘the crazy drink’ for commodity’s sake.)

(Few mechs risked themselves on it. The only ones who did and averted spitting flames out of their tailfins for several megacycles were Racers, whose performance engines were equipped to deal with the violent energy influx, and Seekers, who needed greater concentrations of fuel than most other frametypes.)

(So truly, one didn’t need to look so horrified when Skywarp ordered a Blue Rocket; he wasn’t risking anything. Much.)

“A Blue… Damn, you’re sure? It has a strong kick,” Swerve asked worriedly.

Skywarp waved the concern asides. “Don’t worry, I take them all the time. Blue Rocket,” he confirmed with a nod.

(‘All the time’ was a slight exaggeration. 30% of the time would have been more truthful, mostly because he preferred to indulge in simpler – and cheaper – drinks. But tonight, he was aiming to impress, so slightly bending the truth was fine, right?)

He glanced ‘casually’ at the mech next to him, offering a larger smile and a wave. “Hello there,” he said, barely keeping himself off from purring.

“Hello there,” the older mech replied, briefly taking his cy-gar out of his mouth. He looked amused. Amused was good, Skywarp decided. “Blue Rocket, eh? It’s an… unusual choice,” he nodded toward Swerve, who had already started mixing up the drink (and who, unlike what he had done for the Molten Star, had taken out the protective gloves).

Skywarp grinned cheekily. “What can I say? I like taking risks,” he commented, turning a bit to better look at the other mech, optics roaming over his frame. “Besides, it doesn’t taste nearly as awful as everyone makes it sound to be.”

“For a Seeker, probably not,” the older mech chuckled, “but I’ll still pass my turn with it. Molten Star is more my thing, or an Old Corroder. Perhaps a Mood Whiplash if I’m feeling adventurous – or if I’m certain the bartender didn’t mix-up the carbonated engex with weapons-grade nucleon, right, Swerve?” he asked the barmech with a grin.

“Eh, I already told you it was an accident!” Swerve protested loudly as he finished mixing up the last of the Blue Rocket, which, appropriately, was shining with a neon-blue glow. Skywarp made grabby motions and picked it up in both hands, marveling at the heat emanating from the glass. Now that was what he called a Rocket! “Someone messed up with my bottles’ content, I swear!”

“Didn’t stop Ultra Magnus from having his fuel tank reconstructed,” Kup noted wryly, and Skywarp chortled.

“Seriously? When the Pit did that happen and why did no one told me?” he asked. “I thought I knew all the juicy gossip around!”

“Probably not as well as you think, if all you have is some young punks’ accounts to go by,” the old mech puffed his chest. “Me, though? I hear everything, and I’ve been around so long I know a lot of details about certain mechs they wish everybot had forgotten.”

“Oh, I bet you have,” Skywarp sighed before taking a mouthful of his drink. People pretended it burned, but all he felt was a pleasant if strong tingle. TC pretended he didn’t have taste receptors anymore, which was completely false; but perhaps they were a tad wonky, that much Skywarp admitted. “Wonderful.”

“I’ll have to trust your word on it,” the older mech admitted, putting his cy-gar back in his mouth. With dismay, Skywarp noticed that the other mech’s glass was almost empty. Either he was going to order another and stick around for a bit, which meant Skywarp would have plenty of time to try and seduce him and hopefully drag him to a berth or a supply closet or whatever for some happy fun-time… or he was going to throw a few shanix on the table to pay for his consummation and leave without further words and Skywarp’s effort in getting a frag partner would be ruined yet again.

Which meant he needed to act, and fast!

"Wanna frag?" Skywarp blurted out and mentally winced at his own bluntness. Okay, perhaps he could have put it a bit more nicely, but give him a break! He was getting desperate here, and his berth was growing colder with every cycle passing!

The blue-grey mech blinked, optics cycling slowly before he let out an amused snort. "Now that's what I call a direct proposition!" He gave Skywarp an once-over, a corner of his lips turned upward while biting down on his cy-gar. Skywarp's wings started to drop as he braced for a refusal; after all, if the other mech hadn't said 'yes' yet... "Not the type to beat around the bush to get what he wants, eh? I like that. Yes," he added thoughtfully, "I really like that."

Skywarp's wings lifted up, his attention perking. "Does that mean 'yes'?" he asked hopefully, starting to grin.

Finally! The End of the Quest for Booty!

He felt ready to do a victory dance right now – except it would probably freak the other mech, so better wait a bit.

The old mech gave shrug. "Why the Pit not? I had worse proposals before." Skywarp felt vaguely offended at that one, though he didn't have the time to say anything before the old mech continued. "But I don't have anything else planned for tonight, you're kinda hot to look at and I never turned down an offer to frag, especially not when it comes from a pretty winged thing." He smirked, the cy-gar he had been chomping on rolling from a corner of his mouth to the other effortlessly with a single move from his lips. Skywarp stared at it intently, internally marveling at the level of skill it took to do that without resorting to using your hand of your glossa. It definitely took training to make it appears so smooth. Briefly, he imagined that obviously talented mouth on him and his smile broke into a silly grin. "Besides, you're nice to look at, and there is loads of fun things to do with wings."

Ooooh, now Skywarp's interest definitely perked up. "Been with a Seeker before?" he asked as casually as he could which, admittedly, wasn't that much by this point. An old mech with some actual knowledge of how to handle a Seeker's wings during interfacing sounded very, very good.

The old mech snorted. "Kid, I banged more Seekers in my life than I got shot at -- and given the number of wars and skirmishes I fought in, that should tell you something."

"Yeeesss?" Skywarp drawled, wings flipping fast behind him. "I hear a lot of talking, I don't see much action yet."

The old mech leaned forward, purring. "Oh, I think neither of us would mind if bent you over that counter and slapped your aft silly as foreplay and to teach you some manners,” and oh wow, that sounded naughty as the Pit and Skywarp revved over hearing it “but I'm afraid public fragging is against regulation and knowing how humorless old Prowl and Red Alert are. Knowing them, they wouldn't even throw us into the same brig cell." He made a dramatical sigh to emphasize how cruel he thought it was. Skywarp joined in shamelessly, optics a little glassed over and wings quivering at the thought of getting spanked in public. Primus, he hadn't even known how much he wanted it to happen before the old mech mentioned it. In his mind flashed a fantasy of him, helplessly bound as he laid face down in the old mech's lap while his hand relentlessly slapped his aft.

The old mech snapped his fingers right in front of Skywarp's optics. "Cybertron to daydreaming Seeker; you're still with me?"

Skywarp's cheeks flushed. "Oh, uh, yes. Sorry, I was just... thinking about something."

The old mech gave him a look before deliberately making sniffing sound, his olfactive sensor visibly twitching as he stood up from the bar stool and moved around the black and purple Seeker. "Is that so? Must have been some very... _arousing_ thinking," he drawled, tapping the side of his olfactive sensor knowingly. Skywarp just shrugged with a half-helpless, half-resigned expression. He was a Seeker; like all members of his frametype, his lubricants had a strong scent to them that betrayed his arousal whenever he was revved up. Thankfully, it didn't seem to bother his catch -- uh, future lover. One night stand. Overload-giver. Whatever you wanted to call him. If anything, he looked even more interested in Skywarp.

It renewed the Seeker's hopes into finally, _finally_ getting fragged out of his mind.

"Maybe?" he asked coyly, shifting around as if shy but also 'subtly' showing off how wide and well-maintained his wings were (which, he would let you know, what a beauty canon among Seekers, even if grounders rarely seemed to grasp its importance). "What do you make of it?"

"That you truly needed a good pounding, either as the giver or the catcher," the old mech replied simply. "Now, I wouldn't mind being the one giving it to you... but I have a condition," he warned.

Skywarp's internal giddiness waned a bit. Conditions were rarely fun and often led to 'let's be exclusive' or 'I want to frag your whole trine too' situations he always had to refuse. "Depend on what the condition is, I guess," he said carefully, but the old mech didn't seem bothered by his hesitation. He only smiled wider.

"Oh, it's pretty simple. I would just like to know if the pretty, bold winged thing who requests my favors has a name. Can't exactly scream 'you' and 'Primus' all night when I reach my peak, can I? Well, yes, I could, but names are always nicer, don't you think?" he added casually.

"Oooooh! Oh!" Skywarp blinked before sheepishly rubbing the back of his helm. Right, he hadn't said his name, that was a bit rude, wasn't it? Though he was also used to everybody already knowing who he was, so he had an excuse, right? "I'm Skywarp," he offered. "And you are...?" he added, realizing he had also forgotten to ask his future overload-giver's designation.

To Skywarp’s surprise, the old mech caught one of his hands and put it against his lips, kissing his knuckle. There were still mechs who did that? Weird… but kinda nice; the old mech’s lips were a little rough to the touch, but not disagreeable at all.

"The name is Kup, sweetling. And it's a name you won't forget anytime soon," the blue-grey mech promised.

Skywarp instantly believed him before stiffening and looking up at the old mech – at **Kup** with wide optics. “Wait, Kup? As in, fragged-Winglord-Frostwind-Kup? No way!”

Every inhabitant of Vos old enough to drink and share old, naughty gossip knew the tale of the aptly named Frostwind (who was still remembered by those who had known him as one cold, haughty bastard that made Starscream look positively cuddly for all his scheming and screeching) and how he had gotten an ‘intimate pounding’ out of a grounder, for all his professed hatred of anything with wheels. Details were lost to history (and to badly archived documents, which may have actually be done on purpose due to the embarrassment), but it was known to have happened, mostly because servants in the palace had been too giddy to propagate the news. 

(That was what happened when you were a miser and refused them a raise for the third time in a row. _Of course_ the news one of the Iacon Ambassador’s bodyguards, Kup, had been seen leaving the Winglord’s quarters in the wee hours of the morning had spread like wildfire before the sun was completely set.)

(Funnily enough, the raise they had been asking for happened quickly after, and the rumors immediately quelled. At least in the Palace itself. Outside, well, it was out of their reach.)

(Coincidently, this tryst has been suspiciously close to the official date of conception of Frostwind’s third Creation, Prince Sunfall, which had… encouraged some very persistent rumors. The fact that Sunfall had had blue optics and a rumored fear of heights had not helped them at all, despite all of the Palace’s denegations.)

Kup chuckled. “Oh, way,” he confirmed, lost in fond reminiscences. Not that Frostwind had been a very warm lover or the nicest mech he had met, but the interface had been intense – and the Winglord far mellower once it had been over. The dressing down from the Ambassador, the transfer to a remote outpost and the resulting ban from Vos for the rest of his reign and that of his successor Darkstar had been worth it. “Though he wasn’t the only Palace member I fragged. His trinemates too,” he winked at Skywarp. “Raincloud was quite bendy, as I recall – able to suck his own spike when reaching the optimal position. And Whiteout! I can’t remember another mech with piercings made of pure jewels – at least not on their anterior node,” he mused thoughtfully.

Skywarp stared, lost between amazement and disbelief, appraising the old mech with his optics again. That was… well, slag; if he hadn’t been convinced before, Skywarp would have been upon hearing the details on Whiteout and Raincloud.

(Once again, badly paid servants tended to chat. Plus, it wasn’t as if Frostwind’s trinemates hadn’t left their own mark in Vos’ history – and that of the Red Light District’s.)

“Are you Primus in disguise?” he asked in awe. Because for a grounder, getting to not only frag the Winglord but also his trinemates… his fellow groundpounders should have gotten him a statue! This mech was, like, a legend!

(Unknown to Skywarp, they actually had – though not because Kup had banged the highest ranking Seekers on Cybertron. No. They had done it for his exceptional deeds in battle.)  
(Officially anyway.)

“Nope, but I can pretend to be if it revs you,” Kup winked again. “So… what do you say? My room or yours?”

Skywarp hesitated only for the briefest of time. “Yours,” he decided immediately. If he brought back a lover to their habsuite, he didn’t know how Thundercracker would react. Besides, he had no desire to see Kup’s bits being blown to pieces if TC walked on them.

Kup smiled widely – truthfully, he had hoped the Seeker would pick that option. Now he didn’t even have to make a detour to pick up some toys to spice up the night. “Perfect,” he purred before turning toward Swerve. The barmech had stayed very quiet during the chat, though it was obvious he hadn’t missed a single word (and was probably going to add fuel to the rumor mill the moment he was able to, but Kup didn’t mind and Skywarp even less). “How much for the drinks? Mine and Skywarp’s both,” he added with a nod toward the black and purple Seeker, who blinked.

“Uh, I can pay…” only to be cut off when Kup gently pressed a finger to his lips, shushing him.

“Consider it a treat – the first of the night.”

“Hmm, shouldn’t I call that sentimental slag?” Skywarp pouted, wings twitching slightly as Kup handed Swerve a shanix bar and took the change back. Sweet mechs were fine and all, but that wasn’t quite what he wanted tonight. Had he miscalculated after all?

“Sentimental slag can be good too,” Kup pointed out as he got up from the stool and offered Skywarp his arm, which the Seeker took after giving the older mech an amused look. “Besides,” he whispered to his audio as he guided Skywarp toward the bar’s exist, letting one of his hands rest on Skywarp’s aft for two or three kliks longer than appropriate, “acting like a gentlemech and treating your partner right doesn’t mean the interfacing has to be pure fluff and vanilla, you know?”

Skywarp’s mood brightened. Ah, so not a miscalculation after all! “And how do you propose we do it then?”

“Hmm, depends on your tastes, actually,” Kup hummed thoughtfully as they navigated the base’s hallways, Skywarp hanging onto his arm. “You’d mind some restraints?”

“Ooooooh, do tell me more!” Skywarp said giddily, wings flapping.

“Once we’re in my quarters,” Kup promised. “If we need to haggle down on details, kinks, limits and safe words, I want to do it in private and devote it the time it needs.”

Skywarp pouted. “Aww, but I…!”

“Can take anything I have to offer?” Kup finished dryly. “Perhaps you can, but laying out details can’t hurt. Not if you want me to frag you but good until you can’t walk straight or sit for the next decacycle.”

“I hope you intend to make it a promise,” Skywarp grinned cheekily, to which Kup only replied with a knowing smile.

They lapsed into silence for a while as Kup took the lead, guiding him down corridors Skywarp couldn’t remember going through before. Then again, the base was big and he had no reason to visit quarters which weren’t in his own assigned barrack (unless it was for a prank, of course, but he had toned down about it since he had started his quest for booty). They saw a few mechs and femmes on the way, many of which did a double take upon seeing him follow Kup around. However, no one commented on it, perhaps because they were used to weird mechs trailing after Kup.

(And not all of whom did so for interfacing favors. Hot Rod did it because he wanted advices and enjoyed a close teacher/student relationship with the old mech who had helped raise him. And the Dinobots had found out Kup was a great story teller who didn’t mind talking about his adventures, which were much better and excitant than the ones they found in the library’s datapads.)

(Of course, it was obvious Skywarp wasn’t in the same category, so the mechs who had rooms closest to Kup’s decided that perhaps tonight they were going to be recharging somewhere else.)

(You never knew what kind of noises could filter out, after all.)

"Soooooo... when you said you had worse propositions...?" Skywarp asked curiously as he walked a bit faster to keep up with the older mech.

Kup threw him a glance over his shoulder. "You didn't offer me a bunch of freshly torn up limbs as a 'complimentary' gift before asking." Skywarp made a face. Okay, that was gross, even for him. Kup, however, looked unfazed. "And unlike a few horny mechs I knew back in the day, you were at least polite enough to not just grab my aft and throw me over your shoulder to carry me off somewhere dark and murky to have your wicked ways with me."

Skywarp's optics widened at he let out a long 'ooooooohhh' of appreciation. "Can I do that? Because that sounds super fun!" he asked eagerly, only to yelp in surprise and no small amount of delight when Kup moved and threw him over his shoulder without stopping to walk. Skywarp's face almost connected with a shapely blue-grey aft, but he didn't mind. If anything, he admired the view and even risked a squeeze, Kup making no attempt at restricting his moves. Besides, it wasn't as if the old mech wasn't also shamelessly fondling Skywarp's own aft as he carried him through the corridors.

Kup laughed as he walked down the hallway, paying no mind to the mechs they came across and who could only stare at the sight with wide optics. "Kid," he smirked, "if someone is going to have his wicked ways tonight, I can promise you it's me."

**End?**

**Author's Note:**

> (Yes, it's going to be a memorable night. Perhaps I'll even write it later if I'm inspired enough. ;) )


End file.
